


sometimes you only get one chance

by outwardbound93



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-04-16 16:04:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4631487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/outwardbound93/pseuds/outwardbound93
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU. One Direction never forms, but the X-Factor's not the last place Harry and Niall meet, as it happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sometimes you only get one chance

**Author's Note:**

> "this one will be short," i said. "maybe 10k," i said. well, here we are. title is from walk the moon's "avalanche."

Harry makes it to sun-up yoga on Saturday morning, even though he has to stop once along the way to vom into the bin in front of the kebab stand. Thinking about it, Harry supposes maybe it was the smell of the kebab stand that did it. He stops at the farmer’s market on the way home again for half a dozen apples, three oranges, and a bunch of bananas. He pauses to have a chat with the fruit stand attendant, and she sends him home with a free cardboard carton of blueberries. 

He unloads it all into his little white-cabineted kitchen, sets the oven on to warm, and goes to dump his coat and scarf onto his unmade bed. It’s almost noon, and Harry figures that’s late enough to call. Right? Noon’s the perfect time to do most anything. Make a phone call, order lunch, meet up with friends, feed the dog. Noon is perfect. 

The phone number is scribbled on a scrap of paper from his notebook and adrift somewhere in one of his coat pockets, so he rifles through his wardrobe until he finds the right one. Harry cradles the phone to his shoulder and listens to it ring while he starts bringing ingredients over to the worktop. 

“Yeah?” someone answers, his voice hoarse. He’s got a nice voice, a soft Irish lilt. He maybe sounds a bit brusque, but Harry’s not bothered. 

“Yes, my name’s Harry Styles, I’ve got an interview with a musician, erm, Niall Horan, is this him?” There’s the faint rustling sound of fabric, the person’s breathing going a bit strained as he moves around. Harry wants to tell him to try yoga, it’d help with that. 

“Mate,” the man starts, a laugh in his voice even as Harry registers how tired he sounds. “Do you know what time it is?” 

Harry looks at the clock on the oven. It’s ten am. “Oh,” he says, wincing. “Sorry.”

“What the fuck time were you up this morning?” the guy demands. “Did you even sleep?” 

Harry straightens up, and the phone almost slips out of his grasp. He holds it to his face with maybe too much force. “Of course I slept!” 

“So you didn’t go out last night? What kind of uni student are you?” 

Unexpectedly, Harry laughs. He doesn’t mean to, or he wouldn’t have been drinking from a bottle of water, and water wouldn’t have shot out of his nose like a fire hydrant. He holds his sleeve to his sopping nose. “I went out. I got up for sunrise yoga, ‘s all.” 

The man on the phone hums, and Harry realizes that he’s not asked a single question. He’s just been answering them. “Heeeyyyy,” he drawls indignantly. The oven dings, and Harry makes a soft little sound of surprise. He’s totally forgotten about the apple scones he set out to make when he got home. 

“What was that?” 

Harry starts vigorously whisking flour and eggs and sugar together. “The oven,” he grunts. “I’m making scones.”

“Scones?” the person on the phone repeats. “Well, alright. Text me your address and I’ll be there in a tick.” 

Harry’s pulling the phone away from his ear and tapping in his address when he realizes he’s not even sure whom he’s talking to. “This is Niall, right? Like. Not that you don’t seem nice. You can still come for scones.” 

Niall laughs, and Harry relaxes a bit. He’s got a nice laugh. Surely someone with a nice laugh isn’t some kind of weird phone-predator who waits for nice lads to give them a ring and invite them over for breakfast.

“Yeah, I’m Niall.” 

“Oh. Nice to meet you.”

Laughter’s laced in his words when Niall says, “Nice to meet you, too. See you in a bit.” 

Harry’s just pulling out his pastry brush when the buzzer goes. He trips across the kitchen to answer it. “Hello?” 

“It’s me,” says someone with an Irish accent. “Please let me in, because you’ve got a homeless bloke here on your stoop, and the way he’s looking at me is making me nervous.” 

“Oh, that’s just Steve,” says Harry. “Tell him you’ll bring him a scone when you leave.” 

Niall sounds like he’s choking. “Shall I invite him up for brekkie as well, then?”

“No, you’re giving me an interview, that wouldn’t be professional. Just tell ‘im I’ll send him a scone in a bit. Please,” Harry adds, because he wants to make a good impression. 

He hears Niall give a long-suffering sigh, and then his voice, muffled on the line, as he relays Harry’s message to Steve. “Now can I come up?” 

“The door’s open,” says Harry. He means it literally. He’s left the door on the latch for Niall and he’s just arranging the scones on the pan when Niall knocks once, gently, and pokes his head in. He’s not what Harry was expecting, if Harry had thought about it at all; he’s a bit skinny, and his hair’s a dark ruffled mess, and he has these blue eyes that Harry immediately wants to photograph. 

He’s seen a video of behind the scenes stuff from Harry Potter, and that’s what he thinks of when he sees Niall for the first time, Dan Radcliffe’s “haunting blue eyes,” according to Chris Columbus. 

“You’re like Harry Potter,” Harry doesn’t mean to say out loud. 

Niall raises one eyebrow, his face twisting around. His cheeks turn the faintest bit more pink. Harry really, really wants to touch him. “Okay,” he says slowly. “As come-ons go, I’ve definitely heard worse. I guess?” 

“Oh. Um, sorry. I’m Harry,” he thrusts his hand out. Niall takes his hand. His fingers are a bit shorter, sturdier, than Harry’s. Workman’s hands, Harry thinks, and the opening bars of “Factory” start playing in his head. He wonders if he can shape Niall’s life story into a Springsteen-esque small-town-boy-cum-rockstar. Somewhere deep down in that part of himself that can’t settle, Harry’s always wanted to tell that story. Be a part of it. 

“I know,” Niall answers. He boosts himself up and sits on the counter while Harry finishes brushing milk over the tops of the scones.

Harry uncaps the cinnamon and sets the sugar on the counter. He pushes both toward Niall. “Which one do you want?” 

“I love cinnamon,” Niall answers, so they set about sprinkling both over the tops of the scones. “I like that you’re making me work for these,” Niall says. “Is this you subtly telling me not to get me head stuck too far up me own arse?” 

“Is there a risk of that, do you think?” Harry asks. A wave of heat washes over him when he opens the oven, and he basks in it for a second. He’s been on a lad’s holiday to Ibiza but it’s not that he’s reminded of. Instead, for some reason, it’s the childhood trip to the south of France that pops into his head. His mother’s indulgent smile and soft hands on his face and Gemma’s toothy grin, so much like his own. He slides the tray into the oven and leans against it when he’s done, trying to hold onto that feeling of home.

Niall’s watching Harry closely. “I hope not. What do you think?” 

“I hardly know you,” Harry says. “Ask me again later.” 

“Alright,” Niall shrugs. He slides off the counter when Harry moves toward the living room, which is really just a secondhand couch Harry picked up his second year of uni and couldn’t bear to part with and the armchair from the radio station’s old studio layout they said Harry could take home with him. “Nice place,” he comments. 

It’s just a one bedroom walk-up with a tiny kitchen and an even tinier closet, but Harry had been so fiercely proud of it. The window in his bedroom faced the sunrise, and it made him so happy to wake up in the morning, the white sheets dappled in gold and gray and blue. 

He’s never been a slob, but the couch has a couple of throw blankets spread over it, and there’s leftover takeout on the coffee table, as well as the last six months’ issues of Rolling Stone. Some of his clothes have migrated out of the bedroom in his rush to change or just get comfortable at the end of the day. His living room is like one of those I, Spy books, he thinks, everything quite normal-looking until you notice the line of dancing hula girls on the lamp and the flamingos on his shirts. 

“Thank you,” Harry just says. Niall slumps into the couch, leaning on the arm. He shifts his weight around a bit like his side hurts, or maybe his leg, and Harry frowns. “Would you like some tea? Paracetamol?” 

Niall laughs. “Is that your standard offer? Hey, welcome in, have a biscuit and some painkillers, on me.” 

“You look like you hurt,” Harry defends himself mildly. 

Niall’s face softens. “Then yeah. To both, please.” 

When Harry gets back from the medicine cabinet in his loo, Niall’s looking around his apartment. Harry feels like he’s being sized up, and it makes him a bit uncomfortable, because normally it’s him doing that. Even at a club, he usually has his pick of the lot; it’s him that has to decide who he wants, if anyone. Sometimes he just wants to people-watch.

“Here.” 

“Thanks,” Niall says, popping the pills in his mouth and dry-swallowing. He leans against the wall while Harry fills the kettle and puts it on to boil. “So, like, you don’t seem to have any tunes?”

“Oh,” Harry laughs. Niall follows him back to the bedroom. Harry flips on the light, and he cringes a bit, because the doors to his wardrobe are open and spilling out his clothes, and the unmade bed is heaped with his coat and scarf. His laundry hamper’s open and if Harry concentrates, then he can smell his gym clothes beneath the vanilla candle in the living room and the scones baking in the kitchen. Niall doesn’t seem to mind, though. 

He runs his finger over the record sleeves lined up inside the shelves Harry had made by stacking up a bunch of milk cartons on their sides. Gemma sent him the idea on Pinterest, of all things, and he only had to go to two grocery stores before one let him have the lot of them for free. Niall pulls out the Rolling Stones, “Black and Blue.” He holds it up. He looks between the album cover and Harry’s face, raising that eyebrow, and Harry blushes and grabs at the record. “I see how it is – ” Niall starts, his face breaking out in a smile. 

“Shut it,” Harry cuts him off, seizing the record. His face feels hot. Niall lets it go with a little laugh, and Harry feels something inside of him release a bit of pressure, like a teapot letting out steam. Speaking of which, Harry can hear his right now. He goes to pour the tea, tossing the album onto the bed so that Niall can’t tease him with it for good measure. “Do you want English breakfast or green tea?” 

“Brekkie!” Niall calls. He’s just coming out of the bedroom when Harry’s bringing the tea into the living room. Harry’s left it unsweetened; something about Niall smacks him as the unsweetened-tea sort of guy. 

Niall slips the record out of its sleeve and spins it in his hands, and Harry can finally see it, the music in him. The way it looks careless and haphazard but how he only touches the record by the edges with his fingertips. He’s selected Explosions in The Sky, and it makes Harry pause, because it’s been years since he’s listened to that one. He thinks of studying for his A-Levels and the GCSEs with his mates at one of their houses over a heap of junk food and shoddy daytime television, and his heart aches a bit. 

“English,” Niall hums over the top of his tea. “What is a posh lad like you doing in Dublin, anyway?” 

Harry shrugs. “I took a gap year after I finished school and went to America for a bit, Los Angeles, and, I dunno. Just seemed like the right place.” He clears his throat. He thinks about the slim green book on his bookshelf that he hasn’t cracked open in ages, and suddenly he wants to read it again. He wonders what version of himself is preserved between the pages, how different this reading will be to last time’s. “Don’t you like Ireland?” 

“Me? No, I love it. Lived here all me life. Up to next week, I mean. I guess,” Niall laughs. He gets back to his feet again, taking another lap around Harry’s apartment. “God, that’s weird to think.” 

Harry pulls at his bottom lip. “S’pose so. What’ll you miss most?” 

“Are you interviewing me right now?” Niall asks. “Like, is this part of it? Is everything I say on the record?” 

“Um, no. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.” Niall looks like he’s thinking about it, and then the oven dings again, so Harry holds up one finger and goes to pull out the scones. He piles them on a plate and sets them on the table. 

He and Niall sit across from each other, and Niall reaches to pluck one from the pile and jerks his hand back before Harry can warn him. “Hot! Hot hot hot,” he mutters. Harry gets him an ice cube. 

“Greedy hands get burned,” he tells him sternly.

Niall snorts. “Okay, there. Where’d you hear that, then, your granny’s kitchen?” 

“No. Well, sort of, yeah. I mean,” Harry stumbles over his words, “yes. I used to work at a bakery. The lady who worked there, she was like my grandmother. Had the worst habit of pinching my bum, though.” 

“Well, who can blame her?” Niall rolls his eyes. He’s got a hint of a smile on his face, and Harry smiles back. “Scones are your favorite, then?” 

Harry shakes his head. “No, they’re just easy. I like turnovers, and nothing is better than homemade bread, but a nice soufflé is my favorite.”

Niall nods like Harry’s just said something profound, and then Harry’s phone starts ringing, so he gets up to answer it. One of his uni mates starts babbling to him. Harry drifts over to the window and looks out. The street looks the same as ever on this overcast January morning, dingy cars parked along the old soot-stained kerb. The area’s close to the University and downtown Dublin, but it doesn’t get many pedestrians itself. 

He imagines Niall walking up the street. He wonders which way he came from, whether it was by metro or bus. He wonders what his Leap Card looks like. The frog’s almost all gone from Harry’s, he’s swiped it so many times. That’s what’s kept him from losing it on many a night out, he thinks, his attachment to that card. The way it’s worn down over time because of him. 

“Do you have a Leap Card?” 

“What the fuck, Harry.” 

“Sorry, not you. I meant – nevermind.” 

“So, are you in or out?” Cory sighs. 

Harry answers, “I dunno, let me check.” He holds the phone to his chest. “Some of my mates want to go for a round of mini golf. D’you want to come?” 

Niall’s got that half-smile on his face, still, the one that makes Harry think he’s laughing at him. It makes him feel funny instead of humiliated, and he feels himself dimple back. “Sure,” Niall agrees, nodding his head enthusiastically. 

“Okay. Shall I bring you a scone?” 

“Is it chocolate chip?” 

Harry says, “No, it’s apple.” Cory makes a disappointed sound. “Well, never mind then. We’ll see you in a bit.” 

“More for us,” Niall’s saying through a mouthful of pastry when Harry hangs up. Harry gives Steve his share and a banana on their way to mini-golf. He and Niall take the metro, and Harry tries to subtly look at Niall’s Leap Card. It doesn’t look as broken-in as Harry’s, and for some reason, that makes him kind of sad. He knows Dublin like the back of his hand, he’s taken so many random trips to destinations picked out of blindly poking his finger at a city map. Maybe Niall’s card is just new. 

Harry’s mates are used to him bringing round new friends, so they don’t bat an eye at Niall. Niall’s got a good stroke, even if his backswing is a little wonky, Harry thinks, and him being a lefty on top of that. It brings his competitive side roaring to the surface.

Niall whoops and throws his mini-club up in the air, moonwalking badly over the worn turf. “Birdy! Look at that, Haz.” He loops his arm over Harry’s neck and walks him in a brisk circle. He smells a bit like beer and pub peanuts, but Harry can detect the traces of his cologne underneath, and his breath is minty and fresh. “I’ve kicked your arse all up and down this course today. I’m the king of the course. Look at my kingdom, Simba.” He ruffles Harry’s hair. “Everything the light touches will be yours the day you can beat me!” 

Harry pretends to smack Niall with his golf club, and Niall ducks away laughing. “You think you’re talking to Hamlet,” Harry warns him. “Really I’m Claudius, just you see.” Immediately he blushes, his shoulders come up. Harry’s mates scoff, but Niall just looks curious and pleased. 

The rest of Harry’s mates have a scrimmage football team practice, so they beg off at the metro station. “I’ve always felt like, with my knowledge and understanding of the football game, I should be a lot better at football, but,” he shrugs, and Niall laughs. 

They stop at Saint Anne’s park on the way home to feed the ducks and buy packets of roasted nuts from a little cart inside the park. “I’ll be honest, I don’t much care for birds,” Niall says. 

“These aren’t really birds, though,” Harry says. “They’re like the rabbits of the animal kingdom. Kind of useless, but cute. I got attacked by a goose once, as a kid, actually.”

“Seriously?” Niall laughs. “Wait, why am I not surprised.” 

Harry nods. “My sister had to get it off me. She swears to this day that she almost lost her life.” 

Niall smiles. “Nice. Listen, I hate to cut and run, but I’ve got, like, work stuff I have to do.” 

“Oh, of course. It was nice meeting you.” 

“You, too,” Niall says. He holds his fist out for Harry to bump, and then he’s gone. 

***

Harry brings a drink holder of coffee to work with him on Monday morning. It occurred to him when he woke up at five o’clock this morning in a panic that he hadn’t actually done an interview with Niall, and the stuff he knows about him – he does take his tea unsweetened, and his favorite Eagles album is “Hell Freezes Over,” and he helps with the dishes without being asked – wouldn’t make a particularly interesting article, according to Harry’s editor. 

“It’s a human piece,” Harry tells her, pressing a coffee cup into her hand. “The man behind the music.” 

“You’re going to be a human in pieces,” she answers, taking the cup, “if you don’t get the feature on him.”

Harry leans back in his rolling desk chair, rubbing his hands over his face. “He leaves the country in less than a week, Charlotte, I don’t want to bother him.” 

“Then you should’ve done the interview instead of taking him on a date,” Charlotte rolls her eyes. She ruffles Harry’s hair on her way by. 

Harry spends the day spinning his desk chair as fast as he can without throwing up, reorganizing his desktop layout, and sharpening all of his pencils. His neighbor in the next cubicle has just had a baby, so Harry goes to look at the two dozen pictures of the infant sleeping, sucking on her hand, and wailing at the top of her lungs, if her pink face is anything to go by. 

Harry texts Niall a picture of the baby and then dials his number real fast. “Please don’t be mad at me,” are the first words he says when Niall picks up the phone.

“Okay,” Niall says. “Why did you just send me a picture of a baby?” 

“So you wouldn’t be mad at me,” Harry says. “I just realized, I never actually got an interview with you? And, like. You already gave me all that time. Could we maybe meet up again? You’d be doing me a really big favor.” 

Niall’s quiet for a moment. “Let me get this straight. You texted me a picture of a baby so that I wouldn’t be mad at you when you called to ask me to actually give you an interview?” 

“I mean, to be fair, it is just for the Irish Times,” Harry sighs. “And up till now, I’ve just been pouring coffee and writing fake letters from readers for the Op-Ed column. So, like. You’d be doing me possibly the biggest favor ever.” 

There’s the soft muffled sound of Niall moving around. Harry wonders where he is. Maybe he’s in the recording studio? Or doing a photo shoot? Harry thinks about Niall’s blue eyes, and his hands itch for a camera. 

“Can I ask you a question? Do you even want to be a journalist?” Niall asks. 

Harry stops scraping the paint off his desk with his index finger. “I don’t know,” he admits. “Can I interview you?” 

Niall shifts again, and it occurs to Harry that he might be in bed or having a nap. Harry wonders if he uses a throw blanket, what it looks like, whether he leaves his shoes on or kicks them off. “The thing is,” Niall says, “I’ve gone back to my hometown before tour starts, and I don’t think my mum will let me leave.”

“There’s the phone, I guess,” Harry says, feeling strangely disappointed. “Or email.” 

“Yeah,” Niall says. “Or you can come up here, if you want.”

Harry blinks. “Did you just invite me to meet your parents?” 

“Isn’t that good reporting?” Niall laughs. “You don’t have to.” 

“No, I’ll be there tomorrow. Is tomorrow okay?” 

Niall checks, “You don’t have work?” 

“Oh, no one will care if I don’t show up for a few days. Last month I tried LSD, I think, or it was really good pot, or maybe just really good brownies, and I woke up in a fairy ring in County Wicklow and I couldn’t remember the last two days. I feel like this is a much better reason not to come into the office. Maybe I can even write it off as a business thing.” 

Niall sounds very amused when he says, “It is a business thing.” 

“Oh.” 

“Not, I mean – I don’t mean it, like, I didn’t – ”

Harry’s already Googling the best way to get to Niall’s hometown. “I get it.” 

“You should take the Dublin-Sligo train,” Niall supplies. “My da and I used to take it when I was a kid. Going the other way, ‘o course, to see a match at Croker.”

“Really?” Harry asks. 

“Mm. We’d have to get up at dawn, and it’d be so cold, even with gloves and a hat. It’d still be misty, too. ‘T was like it was just me and my da left in the world.” 

Harry closes his eyes. He can picture it in his head, and he wants to go back and meet that Niall, too, when he was just a little thing. He thinks they’d be good friends. “Just bought my ticket,” he informs him. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. See you tomorrow.” Harry thinks he can hear a smile in Niall’s voice. He can feel one on his own face. 

***

“I’m not paying you for not coming into work for three days. I’m not paying you at all!” Charlotte massages her temples with her thumb and forefinger. Harry peers at the screen on his phone. Is she wearing the same clothes she was wearing yesterday? Harry starts smiling. “This is an internship, and you’ve spent more time hanging around the photography department than you have doing your own job, and why are you smiling?” 

“Charlotte,” Harry starts, “did you have a good night last night?” Charlotte flushes. She clears her throat. “Tell me all about him. Did he buy you dinner first? Did you see a film?”

Charlotte makes her face stern. “Fuck off, first of all, and second of all, enjoy your free trip to Mullingar, Ireland. I’m trying to do you a favor here, Harry. You’ve got one term left at uni, and then what?” 

The call closes out, and Harry lets his phone drop into his lap. He stares out the window. He had a plan. Get this internship, grow it into a real job. Get a promotion, maybe, and move up to writing up football matches or local pieces until he gets his own column someday. It could happen. Why doesn’t he feel excited about it? 

Harry picks his phone up again and goes to his Favorites list. Gemma’s there, right under Mum. One touch away. Harry tips his forehead against the window instead and watches Ireland flash past, trying to see it as Niall did when he was just a kid. 

The train comes to a halt slowly, the brakes screeching, the engine grumbling. Harry waits until it’s all still to grab his bag from the overhead bin and swing it over his head. The station is humming at lunchtime, so Harry puts his head down and pushes through the crowd until he’s on the other side of it. He makes his way to the kerb, where Niall’s texted to say he’ll pick him up. “I won’t take any less than 200 quid,” Harry had texted back, and Niall had sent a Snapchat of himself groaning. Harry grinned. 

He spots Niall behind the wheel of a broken-in blue truck that Harry loves immediately. Before he forgets, he takes his phone out of his jeans pocket and turns the voice memo app on. He slips it into the pocket on the front of his flannel shirt, and Niall pulls up in front of him, the brakes complaining just a bit. 

“Haven’t got 200 quid, I’m afraid,” he apologizes with a grin when Harry opens the door and climbs in. 

“You should know I’m recording everything,” Harry says, tapping his shirtfront. “I’ve been informed that if I can’t get an article out of this trip I’ll have to go back to managing the supply room inventory. I can’t look at any more ballpoint pens, Niall.”

Niall laughs. “Does this mean I’ll have to watch what I say? Am I not supposed to curse anymore? Let me get it out of my system now. Fuck. Shit. Damn. Hell.” He leans closer to Harry and whispers directly into the mic, “Cunt.” 

Harry gets a hand on his head and shoves him away. “Focus on the road, would you?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Niall laughs. 

“Where are we going, anyway?” 

Niall blushes a bit, squirming in his seat. “Erm.” 

“I would just like it on record, for the sake of posterity,” Harry starts, putting his head down a bit so he can be sure the mic gets it, “that Niall Horan looks very uncomfortable right now. Where can we be going? Are we going to visit his heroin dealer? Does he have a family member in jail? Is he actually a member of a crime syndicate?”

Laughing, Niall cuts him off. “Alright, alright! I’ve got, like, a photo shoot? You can, like. Take the car and skip it, if you want.” 

“A photo shoot?” Harry repeats. He can’t help the way his heart skips a beat or his hands start itching. 

“Yeah. The paper here’s doing on a story on me, too. You can shut it with that!” 

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Harry says, “except that I’ve clearly got some competition for this story.” He cuts a glance sideways at Niall. “You must really be something, huh?” 

Niall shakes his head. “Me? Nah.”

They pull up to a pub, and Niall parks the truck. “Don’t judge,” he says. “The onion rings are to die for.” 

An assistant pulls Niall aside once they get inside to fix his hair and pat makeup on his face, so Harry drags out a stool at the bar and Googles Niall Horan on his phone. He’s got a Wikipedia page, so Harry clicks on that. He tried out for the X-Factor, aged 16, and didn’t get through. Then he tried out again. He still didn’t win, but he got far enough that he built a fanbase, and the fanbase was vocal enough to get him a record deal. He’s put out an EP since, but this is his first real album, his first tour. He was young enough that he’s been shunted into the boyband market, and Harry was in the middle of revising, so no wonder he didn’t hear about him. That, and Harry’s only caught up to about 1987, music-wise.

Harry buys his album on iTunes, but before he has a chance to hear it, he spots the other journalist’s camera setup. He glances around. No one’s watching. Harry has the camera off its tripod and is adjusting the lens and setting the aperture when he’s spotted. 

“What are you doing?” Harry starts mumbling a response, and then the bloke goes on, “Oh, you must be the intern?” 

Technically, Harry is an intern. This man hasn’t said that he’s their intern. Harry nods. 

“Hm. Alright, then. Just make sure the battery’s charged and there’s space on the memory, and then take a few test shots. We should be ready to go in about five minutes.” Harry nods obediently, and he’s got the lens to his face when Niall and the assistant walk out of the loo where she’s been making him up. Harry snaps a picture the second he sees him, he’s so surprised. Niall’s always been, like, not ugly, obviously. But he’s worn the same ragged Levis both times Harry’s seen him, and he’s always worn a coat, and. He’s not expecting him to be so fit, is all. 

Niall tilts his head curiously, opening his mouth to ask, and Harry quickly shakes his head. Niall just snorts and rolls his eyes a tiny bit, already smiling. Harry takes a picture of that, too, because Niall’s been making that face at him most of the time Harry’s known him, and Harry would quite like to hold on to it. 

The photographer comes out of the men’s loo, wiping his hands on his trousers, and comes to take the camera away from Harry. He checks the monitor on his laptop nearby and gives Harry an impressed look. “These are quite good, actually. Are you sure you’re one of our interns?” 

Harry just shrugs. He’s seen the photos over the other bloke’s shoulder, and they’re fine photos. In focus, not overexposed. But they’re not Niall. He settles down at a table near the corner for the photos, which Niall takes in a chair dragged away from a table and set in the middle of the floor. Niall leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and he’s mid-laugh when the camera goes again. 

He knows that’s the photo the journalist from Mullingar is going to use, and it’s a good shot. Great, even. But Harry still has that dissatisfied feeling. Like he’s seeing someone he knows, but they’re every so slightly upset with him, and he doesn’t know why. Like he’s reading one of his favorite books, and it’s gone through another round of publishing and someone’s censored a line he knows should be there. 

The interview goes well enough. Niall tells a few stories. They don’t sound rehearsed, exactly, but Harry’s sure Niall’s told them lots of times before. He wonders if that’s something unavoidable in his line of work, if there’s any way to avoid it. Maybe the best way to stop answering the same questions over and over again is just to stop talking at all. Let the music speak for itself.

“I don’t know,” Niall’s saying when Harry tunes back in. “I don’t know how far it’ll go. It’s not the sort of thing I worry about, you know? I just want to do a good job and not lose me head.” He laughs, picking at the cuticle of his thumb with his other hand. 

He and the other journalist shake hands and chat a little more comfortably now that no one’s filming him, so Harry takes the opportunity to forward the pictures he’d taken from the other guy’s laptop to his own email account. He deletes the emails from his “Sent” folder and is just settling back at his own table when Niall joins him. 

“How bad was that? Really.” 

Harry wags an onion ring in his face. “Niall Horan, you prima donna.”

Niall plucks it out of his hand and shoves it into his mouth, chewing hard. His teeth are a bit crooked and Harry has to work very hard to resist the urge to run his thumb over the bottom of Niall’s teeth. He’s halfway successful. Instead, he presses his thumb to the dimple in Niall’s chin. Niall stops cringing, and the dimple goes away, and Harry feels very silly. He puts his hand away. “Sorry.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Niall says. He clears his throat. “So, like. Are you hungry? My mam’s doing a dinner. It’ll just be Maura and maybe my brother and his kid and a bunch of my cousins, ‘s not, like, anything special.” 

A smile grows uncontrollably across Harry’s face. “Niall, don’t tease me.” 

Niall holds up his hands. “You don’t have to come. If you don’t – ”

Harry talks into his mic a bit. “Niall Horan has invited me into the fold, ladies and gentlemen. I am to meet his family tonight. What skeletons could possibly be revealed to me this evening?” He stops to let Niall laugh. “How old is your brother’s kid?”

“Theo,” Niall supplies. “He’s two.” 

“Does he talk yet?” 

“Oh, yeah. It’s all baby-talk, but he talks.” 

“I love kids,” Harry expands. “My sister’s got a fiancé right now but she’s determined not to have any kids until she’s gotten her doctorate done. A few of my cousins have kids, too. Uh, but.” 

Niall’s eyes are set on Harry. “But you don’t even live there. When’s the last time you went home?” 

They’re interrupted by someone putting a hand on Niall’s shoulder, and he jumps. Harry realizes they’ve been leaning toward each other, and he straightens up, offering his hand to Niall’s friend. “Hi, I’m Harry.” 

“Holly,” she answers, shaking his hand. Her grip is tight and her fingers are icy, but her smile is bright. She runs her hands through Niall’s hair, and it’s so casually intimate that Harry wants to look away, or be looking through a camera lens. “Are you a reporter?” 

“Why do you ask?” Harry questions her. 

Holly snorts. “You’ve got that ‘I need answers’ look on your face and your phone’s in your pocket with the speakers up.” Her hand tightens on Niall’s shoulder, and Harry realizes he’s met one of Niall’s protectors. 

“Stand down, Holly,” Niall says, patting her hand abstractedly. “He’s okay.”

“If you say so,” she says, squeezing his shoulder again, more gently this time. “What are you up to tonight? Some of us are going out for drinks, if you want to come.” 

Niall tips his head back to look at her, and Harry looks at the dark stubble on his jaw, watches his Adam’s apple move. It’s an awkward angle but it’s the closest Harry’s gotten to a picture that would do him justice. He wonders when he started equating getting the portrait shot with getting the story. “Just dinner with me mam. Could come out after,” he says, raising an eyebrow at Harry. Harry nods. “What’ve you got in mind?” 

“Pub night?” Holly suggests. She touches Niall’s brow. “Could go out Thursday, too, if you’re interested. Just me and you.” 

Color tinges Niall’s cheeks. Harry busies himself stuffing his mouth full of food so he can’t say something stupid. “Watching the little lad that night,” he tells her. “You’d have better luck asking out Greg and Denise.” 

Holly smiles slowly. She raises an eyebrow at Harry, and he wonders if it’s one of those things that people spread to each other over sheer time. Which one of them did it first. “The old babysitting thing,” she laughs. “God, we used to do that all the time, remember? Who was it that almost caught us that one time, Claire?” 

Niall’s cheeks turn very pink and Harry twigs to the fact that she’s not just teasing Niall, she’s saying something to Harry. The message feels pretty clear. 

“Yeah, well,” Niall coughs. “We’d better get going. I’ll see you tonight, Holly?” 

“Sure. I’ll text you. Later, love.” 

The truck is quiet and maybe almost awkward. Harry can’t tell if that’s in general, or if it’s just him. “So, that was an ex?” he says, then cringes. His record for saying the absolute wrong thing stands, apparently. 

Niall’s spine goes less rigid in his seat, and Harry turns his back against the door so that he can look at Niall better. “She’s just overprotective. She means well.” 

“Has the press been quite cruel to you, then?” 

“Not too bad,” Niall says, looking right, away from Harry. “A bit,” is all he adds. 

Harry covers his phone with his hand. “I’m sorry.” 

Niall glances at him. “You didn’t write it. Just, like. Do we have to talk about it?” 

“No. What do you want to talk about?” 

“What would you be doing if you weren’t a uni student?” Niall asks. Harry feels surprise written all over his face. 

He thinks about it. He’s never thought about not being at uni. It was the logical next step, even during his gap year, when he was only interested in having fun. “When I was a kid, I wanted to be a magician.” 

“Seriously?”

He nods. “Yeah. Then a vet, for a bit. I thought I might be a lawyer when I got to uni, but I did better in English and Sociology than Law, so I figured maybe it wasn’t in the cards.”

“Ah,” Niall nods. “So the journalism thing, it’s – ”

“Both English and Sociology,” Harry cuts him off, “and yes, I know it’s kind of, like, whatever. But. I really wanted it, for a while.” 

They pull up to a red light, so Harry has no excuse to ask Niall to look away from him. “And then what happened?” 

Harry pushes his hair back from his face. Fields roll on in either direction, broken up only by a water channel to their left. A tractor rolls home in the distance, and he can hear cows mooing softly to each other. “It’s just really sad, okay? Like, people don’t want to read about their neighbors having a baby, or the great concert that happened just up the street, or how great Mrs. Nichols’s hydrangeas are coming up this year. It’s all doom and gloom, and – ” He cuts himself off, biting his lip. 

Niall gives him a crooked grin. “Should I be worried that’s the angle you’re taking with our article, then?”

“No,” Harry breathes out. He chuckles. “God, no. I just mean. Our normal features guy is on holiday, or Charlotte wouldn’t have asked me to do it. And even then, it’s like. I just want to make people happy, even if it’s just for, like, half an hour. God, I don’t know. What are your parents like?” 

“I don’t really feel like going into all that David Copperfield kind of crap,” Niall misquotes, reaching out to smack Harry in the chest. He grins cheekily. “How about you just meet them, instead?” 

Niall’s mum’s house is teeming with wee Irish people. The tiniest of them all is Niall’s mother, who greets him by saying, “Tuck in your shirt, you look a right mess,” and “It’s a pleasure to meet you, young man,” to Harry. Harry likes her immensely. 

He likes Niall’s whole family, as a matter of fact. They talk as loudly as Niall does and there’s Irish music playing all throughout the house and when they sit down for dinner, they hold hands and Chris, Niall’s stepdad, utters a quick prayer before they dig in. He’s sat next to Niall, who passes him a plate full of sausage. “The best in the world,” Niall brags. 

Harry snorts. “Hardly.”

“What are you on about?” Niall all but gasps. “Irish sausage is the best,” he repeats firmly. 

“Too salty,” Harry tells him, wrinkling his nose. Niall huffs and pinches the birthmark on the back of Harry’s hand. Harry’s always liked Irish funerals, and now he supposes he likes Irish farewell dinners, too. Nobody makes any sentimental toasts to Niall except to the four leaf clover tattooed on his bum, and Niall blushes so hard at that Harry can’t imagine there’s any blood in reserve anywhere else in his body. 

Holly texts just as Maura’s dinner party finally seems to be winding down, so Niall taps Harry on the shoulder and pulls him out of a conversation about Man U with Niall’s Uncle Sal. Maura intercepts them on their way out. She ropes her son into a tight hug, and the top of her head just comes up to Niall’s chin. It makes him think of his own mother, and his phone is a heavy weight in his pocket. “Be good,” she says, squeezing her eyes shut. “Be safe, have fun.” 

“Always do,” Niall manages, stroking her hair once before he pulls himself out of her arms and opens the front door. 

They walk across the garden to Niall’s truck. Niall’s quiet. He doesn’t seem upset, exactly, just like there’s a lot on his mind. “Your family’s great,” Harry ventures to say. “Have you always been close?” 

“God, no,” Niall says. “My parents got divorced when I was just a kid, and I was living with Maura, but her place was pretty far out of the way then, so. Moved in with me dad instead.” 

“My parents are divorced, too,” Harry admits, buckling his seat belt. “My mum’s been seeing this guy, but, uh, I haven’t met him yet.” 

Niall flips the radio on. “You should,” he says, distracted. Ed Sheeran kicks on with a song about dancing when we’re old, and Harry leans back in his seat. Maybe, he thinks. 

***

“Pub night” actually amounts to “incredibly drunken karaoke night.” It only takes three drinks to get Niall on stage with a guitar in his hands. His eyes are a bit down-turned when he’s drunk. He looks adorably like a basset hound. 

“Okay,” he says into the mic, and the pub howls. Niall flips them all off. “Okay, this should be, uh, what do we say, George Ezra, ‘Barcelona’? Here we go, then,” he laughs, and Harry stops hearing anything else. Niall taps his foot for the percussion bits, and it’s. 

Like, okay. Harry’s had this discussion with every single one of his roommates, which is why he now lives alone, but the truth is, Bob Dylan’s voice was kind of terrible. It is! Harry has always insisted. He’s had a plate thrown at him for his efforts. But it’s true, and that’s the thing about folk musicians. You don’t need a great voice. You just need to believe it. Niall has a great voice and he believes it. 

Suddenly Harry’s excited about the album he’s not yet heard burning a hole in his pocket, and he checks to make sure his phone is still recording this live performance. He steps out back to make a phone call when the song’s over and Niall’s pulled aside by his friends for another round. 

Harry clips the audio from his voice memos and emails it to Grimmy. “Did you check your email?” he says, when Grimmy picks up his call. 

“Seeing as it is eleven o’clock on a Thursday and I have work at five, no, I have not,” Grimmy answers patiently. 

“Oh.” Harry bites his lip. “Well, you should.”

Grimmy heaves a long-suffering sigh. “Is this you asking me to listen to the song right this minute, Styles?” 

“Well,” Harry drawls, digging his toe into the pub’s barren garden. He can see his breath every time he exhales, and if he weren’t so tipsy, he would probably be freezing right now. As it stands, he thinks he sees the first few snowflakes slowly float down. He listens to Niall’s audio play back over Grimmy’s line. 

“Who is this?” Grimmy asks. 

“Niall Horan, have you heard of him?” 

Grimmy makes an “oof” noise. “Oh, duh! The little X-Factor chap with the terrible hair and the cute little teeth. This is him?” Harry hums. “Wait a minute,” Grimmy says. “Harry, where are you right now?” 

“Um.” 

“‘Um’ wouldn’t mean within a one-kilometer radius of Niall Horan, would it?” 

Harry just hums again. 

Grimmy pushes, “Because you know how this goes. You meet someone and fall desperately, irrevocably in love with them for about five minutes and do something stupid, like get a tattoo for them, and then you get bored. Never mind the fact that you manage to make off with something of theirs to add to your love token raven’s nest of a flat. I know I didn’t lose my turquoise ring, you bird-thief.”

“My tattoos aren’t stupid,” Harry objects, “and there hasn’t been anyone since you anyway, so.” He starts tugging at his bottom lip with his forefinger and thumb. He hadn’t meant to admit that. “I mean. It was ages ago, you and me, Grim. I’m not trying to make you jealous anymore.” 

Grimmy’s quiet for a moment. “Six months,” he says. “Six months isn’t what I’d call ages, Haz.” 

“I thought you said you wanted me to get over you.” 

“I did,” Grimmy sighs. It sounds heavier, older, this time. “I do.” 

Harry stoops down to pet a little cat that’s wandered out of the shrubbery. Harry wonders if it has somewhere to go, if he can stuff it inside his coat and take it home with him. Do trains allow cats? “Then I guess I’m just. Like, calling. I’m writing about him and he’s good and I’d have called to say that if I was trying to make you jealous, too, I guess, but. I’m not now.” I’m not now, Harry realizes.

A weight he hasn’t been aware of sloughs off his chest, and he scoops up the cat and takes him over to Niall’s truck. He shrugs off his coat and makes a warm little nest for the alley cat to rest in, if she wants, till he and Niall get back. The cat curls up right away and goes straight to sleep, purring softly. 

“I’m happy for you,” Grimmy eventually says. “You were never meant to be alone.” 

“I started taking pictures again,” Harry adds quickly. “Well. I guess you didn’t know I stopped, but.”

Grimmy just says, “Yeah?” 

“Yeah. And, hey. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t realize that just because I couldn’t have you, doesn’t mean I didn’t have you.” 

It kind of sounds like Grimmy’s about to laugh or cry. Maybe both. “Water under the bridge, Styles. Good night.” 

When Harry gets back inside, Niall’s up on stage again. “Harry!” he calls. He holds onto the mic stand for support and points at Harry with his other hand. “Get on up here, lad, you owe me a tune.” 

Niall’s friends start pushing Harry up to the stage. “I don’t really sing,” he tries to say. 

“Then stand up here and look pretty,” Niall smiles, shoving a mic into Harry’s hands. “Now. What’ll we do?” 

At Harry’s suggestion, Niall raises that one eyebrow again. Harry’s snapping a picture on his phone before he can quite rethink it. “You know about First Aid Kit and you didn’t know who I was?” 

Harry pokes Niall in the forehead. “Prima donna Niall,” he says again, with a smile, and Niall grins. 

“Oh, okay. ‘Stay Gold,’” he tells the pub tech, who gets the song queued up on the karaoke machine. 

It’s not really a high-energy song, but Harry still finds himself bopping around the stage, shaking his hips and doing his best dance moves. Niall’s laughing almost too hard to get the lyrics out, and Harry grabs his hand and twirls, squeezing a bit to fit under Niall’s arm. 

“You’re unreal,” Niall’s saying as the song fades out and they pass their mics off. 

“In a good way?” Harry asks. Niall just scoffs like the answer’s obvious. He does his best to keep up with Niall and his mates as the night goes on, downing more pints than he’ll be able to remember tomorrow. 

He thinks he and Niall go back onstage a few more times. He has a vague impression of a Britney song. Then the cold air is hitting him like a brick wall as they step outside, and he’s curling into Niall’s side. “Where’s your coat?” Niall asks, stumbling a bit as he tries to keep Harry upright, too. 

Harry trips over his own feet in surprise. “Oh, yeah.” He finds the truck by walking straight into it, and he’s rubbing his knee when he rounds the bonnet. The little alley cat is still fast asleep inside his coat, her purring louder now, more assertive, settled. 

“What the hell is that?” Niall says, sounding like he already expects the worst. “Please tell me it’s not a raccoon.”

“It’s not a raccoon,” Harry dutifully replies. “It’s a cat. Can I keep her, Niall? Look how cute she is. Look at those little whiskers. Look at her itty bitty paws. C’mon, Niall,” Harry whines. He’s learned to get his begging out of the way early, so he can only get more plaintive and pathetic as his pleas go on. Gemma always had logic on her side; Harry just had his eyes to use on his mum. 

Niall looks skeptical. “She probably has rabies. Or mange, or something. Fleas.” 

Harry scoops her up and cradles her to his chest inside his coat. He pushes out his bottom lip. “Nialler.” 

“Oh, God, fine. But she goes back to Dublin with you,” Niall warns him. 

Harry strokes the cat’s soft fur on the walk home, Niall’s arm around his waist, keeping him close. 

***

“Your cat peed on the floor,” Niall wakes him up by saying. “You should probably come clean it up,” while Harry dry heaves over the side of the bed. 

“Please don’t talk about that right now,” Harry mutters. He hasn’t even opened his eyes yet and already today is the worst possible day. “I’m very delicate.” 

Niall snorts. “Hardly. Do you know how hard it was to get you up the stairs? You passed out on me at one point, I’ve got a bruise the size of me mum’s head.”

Harry forces his eyes open. “I’m sorry.” He tries to pull Niall closer. He’s standing at the head of the bed, just out of reach, so Harry gets ahold of him by his t-shirt and tugs hopefully. “Let me see it.” 

“It’s really not that big of a deal,” Niall says. Harry tugs again, and it seems like Niall might be about to try to break his grip, so Harry throws in his Hail Mary now before he throws up all over himself and halfway falls out of bed, reaching for him. Niall comes closer to save Harry from braining himself on the bedside table and Harry takes advantage, pulling Niall over him. He lands on the bed with a soft sound of surprise, and Harry throws his leg over Niall’s to keep him pinned. 

Harry feels quite comfortable laying on this soft bed with Niall beside him, smelling like Irish Springs soap and aftershave and cool winter air. The bed is cozy and comfortable, even if it’s too small for two grown men. Harry stares up at a Derby poster on the ceiling, watching the shadow of a tree move over the poster. “Where are we?” he asks.

“My old room,” Niall answers. “We’re at me dad’s house. You really don’t remember coming here?” 

Harry shakes his head. He turns to look at Niall, whose hair is dampening the pillow squished up between them. “No. Was I terribly embarrassing?” 

Niall shakes his head. “Nah.”

“Good,” Harry says softly. He studies the little bookshelf against the wall, which is stacked with a few tattered paperbacks and heaps of CDs. The desk holds an old computer monitor and tower, neither of which look like they’ve been on in years. There are a handful of pictures tacked to a corkboard: Niall and his mum, Niall and Holly, a young man and woman and baby – probably Niall’s brother and his son, whom Harry still hasn’t met. An acoustic guitar leans against the wall. 

It’s neat without lacking personality, and it’s soothing to Harry’s hungover brain, like having everything in its place soothes his mum when she’s nervous. “I should probably be taking notes,” Harry muses. He fumbles around the nightstand for his phone, which is clinging to five percent battery life. He shrugs and flips the voice memo app on. “Niall’s childhood bedroom,” he says dramatically. “The inner sanctum.” 

“What do you think?” Niall asks, watching Harry closely. His eyes are so blue in the crisp winter light. Harry wishes he had a good camera. 

It takes Harry a moment to think of the word. “Self-contained,” he decides. “It’s kind of like a snowglobe in here.”

Niall frowns. “That’s bad, isn’t it?” 

Harry shrugs. “I don’t think so. ‘S like, you can go away from it and come back and it’s exactly the same. ‘Sides,” he nudges Niall with his elbow, “my nan loves snowglobes.” 

Niall’s face goes soft. “Did you know your two front teeth are, like, a tiny bit bigger than the rest of ‘em?” 

Harry nods. “It’s the Hermione Granger phenomenon.” He doesn’t miss the way Niall’s eyes stray back to his mouth, or the way they stay there. 

“This is going to go down really great in your article,” Niall says, abruptly changing topics. “Shouldn’t you be asking me, like, hard-hitting questions? So far all we’ve done is have pints with my mates and eat my mum’s food. Isn’t your editor going to be upset with you?” 

“Maybe,” Harry shrugs. “We’ll see how I write it.” He smiles. “But, okay. Let’s see. Your biggest musical influences?” 

“The Eagles,” Niall says immediately. “Don Henley. Uh, Tom Petty, Keith Richards, Roger Daltrey. People like that, especially good guitarists.” 

“The first time I met you I thought you’d make a good Springsteen-type,” Harry admits.

Niall chokes on a laugh. “Really?” 

“Yeah, why?” 

“That’s just, like. The nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.” 

Harry keeps his eyes trained on Niall’s face. He’s got the faintest blond freckles on the tops of his cheeks and nose, and his eyelashes are stuck together from his shower, and he’s missed a little spot on the edge of his jaw when he was shaving. He wants to, like. It’s impossible, but he wants to wrap his arms around Niall and pull him into himself. There’s something so precious about him. Harry settles for the next best thing. “Can I take your picture?” 

“What, right now?” 

Harry’s already worrying at his bottom lip, his eyebrows up. “If you don’t mind?” 

Niall just shrugs, so Harry leans up on his elbow and frames the shot on his phone. Niall folds one arm beneath his head and looks right down the lens, his eyes not challenging, but not submissive, either. It’s not the picture, but it’s quite good, if Harry does say so himself. The shot is very unsaturated so the blue in Niall’s eyes pops against his dark hair. He looks fresh and clean and young. 

“Hey, so,” Niall starts, very softly. He clears his throat. “There’s breakfast, and coffee, downstairs. If you’re hungry.”

Harry draws back. For some reason it occurs to him that his breath must reek, and he covers his mouth self-consciously. His stomach gives an unhappy lurch. “Maybe a shower first?” he asks. 

“Yeah,” Niall nods. He points down the hall. “Loo’s at the end, you can’t miss it.” 

Niall must’ve brought Harry’s bag up, because it’s at the foot of the bed. Harry fishes out a fresh jumper and jeans and scurries to the bathroom, Niall’s eyes on him the whole time. Harry uses the body wash from the wire shelf hanging on the showerhead. It smells like Niall. 

When he gets back to the bedroom, Niall’s not there. Harry stuffs his grungy old clothes into his bag, pulls out a new pair of socks, and ties his boots back on. There’s a middle-aged man sitting at the table downstairs with a newspaper open in front of him when Harry ventures down. This house is smaller than Niall’s mum’s, older, too, it seems. It feels like a cabin or a holiday house, like the one Gemma and Anne have sent pictures from on holiday with Anne’s boyfriend. Maybe. Harry wouldn’t really know. 

The man lifts one eyebrow at Harry, so immediately Harry knows where that particular tic came from. “Eggs and bacon on the hob, coffee in the pot.” Harry nods and serves himself a heaping plate. He sits down across from the older man, who snorts at Harry’s plate. “I’d have thought you were too hungover,” he muses. 

“I threw up in the shower,” Harry admits. “I think I may throw up again later. Oh!” He can’t believe he’s forgotten. “My cat, the cat I found, I – ”

He just waves it off. “Niall cleaned up the mess. She’s sleeping on top of the dryer last time I checked. ‘M Bobby, by the way. Niall’s dad.” 

“You don’t look much alike,” Harry says. “Sorry, was that rude? I didn’t mean to be rude. I mean, you do look a bit alike. Like, if he ages as well as you have – er, I mean.” 

Bobby just smiles. “Do you want a section?” 

“What?” Bobby shakes out the newspaper a bit, and Harry gets it. “Sports, if you’re done with it?” 

“What’s your team?” 

“Man U,” Harry answers hesitantly. Mostly he lies, when he answers this question. He’s an Englishman in Ireland, he can’t afford to support an English team, to boot. Bobby scoffs. “Why, who’s your team?” Harry asks. 

Bobby’s chest puffs out a bit. “Derby County,” he says.

Harry starts buttering his toast. “Why Derby County?” 

Bobby gives Harry a short (re: extended) history of Irish football leagues, and then they move on to Bobby’s job as a butcher and the best way to cook a roast. They agree on as slow as possible. Bobby asks what Harry’s favorite thing about Ireland is, and Harry thinks about it while he chews on a piece of bacon. Bobby’s managed to make it crispy without burning it, and Harry chews more slowly, savoring it. “This is going to sound so cliché,” he laments. “But my favorite thing is probably the pubs?” 

“Why’s that?” 

“My first year of uni, I was at the Bernard Shaw pub with my mates. We were sitting in the back garden next to that big blue bus they’ve got – d’you know it? Well, anyway. We were just having our pints and then these two blokes come stumbling out the back door, fists swinging, their teeth clenched. I swear I could see their pupils from my seat. I swear!” Harry laughs when Bobby does. He just barely holds his thumb and forefinger apart. “This big. I thought someone was going to die. Probably me, with my luck. And then, I dunno. It was like they’d had enough, and they stopped, and backed away from each other, and. That was it.”

Niall speaks up, and Harry jumps, because he hadn’t noticed Niall come in. He’s leaning against the counter sipping coffee from a chipped white porcelain mug, his hair curling a little at the back of his neck and behind his ears. “That’s your favorite thing about Ireland?” 

“Yeah,” Harry admits. “It was mad, you know? But also, like, not.” And Harry’s pretty sure he saw them buying each other pints at the bar later when he went in to use the loo. It was real, Harry thinks, and he busies himself rubbing his finger along the edge of the plate in front of him. When he chances a glance up, Bobby’s looking at him with the same slightly confused fondness that Niall looks at him with. It feels more familiar than it should. 

Niall pushes himself away from the counter and sets his mug into the sink with a soft clink. “We should get going,” Niall says, nodding his head at Harry. Harry rises obediently, taking his plate and cup to the counter. “We’ll see you tonight, Bob?” 

Bobby nods and waves his hand. “Was nice to meet you, Harry.” 

“You too,” Harry says, offering his hand for Bobby to shake. Bobby does so, the reluctantly fond expression on his face giving way to a full-blown smile. Harry beams back. 

He follows Niall back upstairs to collect his wallet and keys and – “Drat,” Harry curses, looking at his phone. He’s forgotten to charge it and it’s finally died. “Huh.” 

“What’s on?” Niall asks, picking his head up from where he’s been sliding his feet into a pair of battered Supras. 

“Phone’s dead,” Harry murmurs. He bites his lip, then he stoops and rifles through his bag. He finds his camera bag and he pulls it out, settling it across his lap where he’s knelt down. The zipper moves easily, which surprises him a bit. He feels like it should’ve rusted over by now. It powers on easily, the lithium ion battery he’d saved up half a summer for proving it was worth every kneaded loaf of bread. 

When he looks up, Niall’s standing over him. Harry half-lifts the camera, proffering it to him. “Nice,” Niall just says, giving Harry a crooked smile. Harry shrugs back and slips the camera strap over his head. The camera’s weight settles familiarly across his collarbones like he never took it off. Harry adjusts the lens and focuses on the window, letting the camera auto-adjust before he fixes the settings. Beneath the window, Niall’s bed is still rumpled, the pillow still dented where Harry laid on it all night. He fits the edge of the Derby County poster in frame, and the brim of Niall’s discarded Adidas snapback sitting on top of the bureau. A snapshot. A snowglobe. 

“Ready?” Niall asks, when Harry lowers the camera. They stop by the utility room on the way out so Harry can check on the cat. He cuddles her to his chest and lets her nose at his face even though Niall’s convinced he’s going to contract some fatal form of chlamydia. “She’s not a koala,” Harry had rolled his eyes. 

“We should pick up some cat food and kitty litter while we’re out today,” Harry says, watching Mullingar roll past with the camera pressed to his face. He’s not taking any shots, he just likes the way it looks. Likes the way it feels in his hands. “Where are we going, anyway? Another modeling shoot? Are you selling cologne now? Should I be preparing to swoon?” 

Niall colors a bit. “I fed her a can of tuna this morning, but yeah, that’s a good idea.”

“So we are doing something posh,” Harry says, clinging to the important thread of this conversation. “I love it when you get all embarrassed and squirmy.” He’s reaching over and caressing Niall’s cheek with the back of his hand before he can stop himself. His skin is smooth and warm. He pulls his hand away and the muscle in Niall’s jaw jumps like he wants to say something. “Er. Sorry.” 

“No, it’s uh. Uh. It’s nothing, like, exciting,” Niall says, holding tight to the steering wheel with both hands. “Just rehearsal.” 

Harry hums thoughtfully. “You’re not embarrassed, then,” he thinks aloud. 

“No, I’m cacking my pants,” Niall admits, glancing sideways at Harry. “I’m really glad you’re not recording this right now.” 

“Wait, so, you’re going to perform your album live today?” 

“Just for practice, y’know. So I have the setlist and stuff down before the show on Saturday.” He starts chewing the side of his thumb. “It’s really not that exciting.” 

Harry settles back in his seat and decides to change the topic. Maybe he can be a distraction. “I like your dad,” is the first thing that comes to mind. “He’s like a book character a bit, all fake-gruff with a heart of gold. Did he ever take you fishing?” 

Niall laughs out loud. “How did you know about that?” Harry just hums, and he can hear it when the penny drops for Niall. “Are you trying to wrangle yourself an invitation to go fishing with my father?” 

Harry sniffs. He flips through his camera’s memory card. There’s stuff in here all the way back from his first year of uni, shots of friends he’s almost forgotten he’s had. He wonders where they are now. 

Chuckling, Niall says, “You’ll have to ask him yourself, but I think he’s got the day off tomorrow if you want to get up at four o’clock in the morning to go.” 

“Fine,” Harry says, folding his arms across his chest. “I will.” 

They pull up to a pub called “The Stables” with a big closed sign in the window, grass growing up through the cracks in the pavement, dirt clouding the windows like sepia tone. “I like it,” Harry says, sliding out of the truck. His feet hit the soil and he sinks in half an inch, his boots squelching in the soft soil. “It’s got a nice Mumford and Sons-y aesthetic.”

Niall snorts on a laugh. “It’s not much,” he acknowledges. “Actually,” he’s saying, as he fishes a key out of his pocket and slides it into the door, letting Harry go in first, “it used to be.” Harry waits for Niall to pocket the key and flip the lights on, and then he follows him over to the stage. The chairs are all stacked up on top of the tables, and the bar is dark and empty, and Harry can see dust swirling in sunbeams shooting in through the dirty windows. Niall’s unconsciously started speaking lower, and Harry copies him, trying to keep his feet from dragging too much on the floorboards. This feels like a sacred place, almost. Like a church of music, or something. 

Picking up an acoustic guitar, Niall sits on a stool beside the drum kit and starts tuning it. Harry roams around a bit on his feet, looking at the scuffed carpets beneath the band setup and the beer-stained floors. The walls have clean spots on them, and he wonders what used to hang over them. 

“I used to sneak in,” Niall goes on, “or come with me dad when I was a lad. There used to always be someone giving a show, and lots of times it was proper good. Paddy Casey, Damien Dempsey. Some of The Frames cam by and performed, too, and the last show I ever saw here was The Blizzards. It could be a real shitshow with people throwing up and throwing pints, too,” Niall says, with a soft, reminiscent smile on his face, “but, like. It was all about the music, you know?” 

Harry nods like he understands. Niall can tell he’s lying, of course, so he twists his face around while he thinks. “It’s ‘My Father’s House’ for Springsteen, or ‘Sometimes You Can’t Make It On Your Own’ for Bono after his dad died. He’d wrote it about his dad, and practically the next day, U2 had a show at Slane Castle. But they didn’t cancel. They went on, and he sang that song. And it could’ve been so sad, you know?”

“It wasn’t?” Harry asks, surprised. 

“No, it was, like, joyous. That’s what it’s all about. That’s what this place used to be.” 

Harry watches Niall’s fingers unconsciously tap out the chords and notes to a song. “Do you have a moment like that?” he asks. 

Niall gives a little shake of his head. “Nah.” He waits a moment, looking up at Harry from under his brow, and grins. “Just singing in the choir when I was a kid, you know? That was the best part of church for me. We’d sing and, like, when people sang back, it was.” He stops and shrugs self-consciously. “Anyway. Here we are.” 

“You’re like sunshine,” Harry observes. It’s not a hard thing to say in this almost-holy place, with sunbeams scattered around. It feels obvious. 

Niall looks up slowly. “Yeah,” he says softly, “that’s what I was talking about.” 

He has to concentrate on soundcheck, so Harry gets up for a bit of a wander. The pub’s office walls are covered in band flyers and posters, and the toilets in the loo all have graffiti all over them. Harry takes a pictures of some of the best ones. 

By the time he gets back, Niall’s started in on his set. Harry sits down on the floor beneath the stage and leans back on his hands, letting his head rest on his shoulder. Like sunshine, he thinks. 

***

“Ooh,” Harry says. “We should get these.” 

Niall pokes his head around the corner of the aisle and makes a face. “What the hell do we need pool noodles for?” 

“They have floaties, too,” Harry says. “And water guns. We should go swimming.” 

“In Ireland? In January?” 

Harry hums, moving along the aisle. He’s poking at a shelf full of remote-control cars when Niall comes to drag him away. They pass the food section of the grocery store and Harry digs his toes in a little bit. “Wait a sec.” Niall stops, looking at him doubtfully. “I’ve just realized, I’ve a hotel room.” Charlotte rented it for him, and he’s not even seen it yet. Niall nods, like, go on. “What is the number one most rockstar thing someone can do?” Harry asks. This is a great idea. He starts getting properly excited about it. 

“I’m not doing coke,” Niall says immediately. “And this is Mullingar. The closest thing I’ll have to a groupie is my little cousin’s best friend and, like. No.” 

“Setting aside your attitude problem,” Harry says, trying to duck away when Niall reaches out to cover his mouth, “the answer is simple. We trash the hotel room.” He thinks of the next logical step in his plan and starts high-stepping it around the grocery store.

Niall still looks doubtful. “Yeah? And who’s going to pay for that?” 

“Work,” Harry waves that away. “Listen, we just need to get you very drunk, and then you can write an awesome song that you won’t remember writing, and hopefully you’ll throw up, and you can check this off the list.” He puts his hands on his hips in front of the wine selection, pursing his lips. “White or red?” 

“I’m meant to drink wine and get pissed?” Niall snorts. “There’s a liquor store literally next door.” 

Harry shrugs, and then he realizes they probably shouldn’t drink on empty stomachs. “Wait,” he grabs Niall’s sleeve. “Let’s get some food while we’re here.” 

“What about Nando’s?” Niall suggests reasonably.

“I’m trying to eat healthy,” Harry explains. “No takeaway.” 

So Niall picks out a couple of packets of Chicken Ramen, a package of Red Vines, and an orange. Harry selects a little thing of hummus and pretzels, cheese cubes, and a bunch of bananas. Niall looks over his selection with one eyebrow arching toward his hairline. “I’m just warning you now,” he says. “Don’t expect me to share.” Harry just tosses his head. 

They stop by Bobby’s house to drop off the kitty litter and cat food, and Harry sits on the couch with Bobby while Niall gets the cat settled. “So,” he starts. He’s not quite sure where to begin. “Can we go fishing tomorrow?” 

Bobby looks round in surprise. “Really?” 

Harry nods. 

“Well, alright.” Bobby starts to smile. “Niall would never get out of bed for it, so. Are you sure?” 

Harry nods again, more fervently. “I mean, if you don’t mind. If it’s fun for you as well, I mean, I don’t want to drag you out of your house if you don’t want to go.” 

“I’d love to.” Bobby’s face shutters a bit. “But, uh. This isn’t for the interview, is it?” 

“No. No, of course not.” 

Not much of anything has been for the interview, Harry thinks. 

Harry flops onto the hotel room bed. He lays on his stomach and hits the power button on the remote, the TV flickering to life. He pats the mattress next to him, and Niall lowers himself down. 

“No,” he’s saying not much later, “I’m not watching a rom-com, c’mon.” 

“Well, I’m not watching Insidious 3 or whatever the hell that was. Her head was on backwards, Niall,” Harry hisses. He chomps on the last of his pretzels. 

Niall twirls his fork in the Ramen noodles. Harry eyes them speculatively. “Stop looking at me food like that,” Niall says, twitching the plastic container away from Harry. “I told you you’d still be hungry, and you didn’t listen.” 

“But Niiiiaallll,” Harry whines. He tries to take a sip of his screwdriver without spilling it all over himself. “We should’ve got straws,” he muses. He finishes the glass and rolls onto his back. Niall’s still staring at the TV, his jaw working in precise, measured bites. 

“Now you’re looking at me like I’m the food,” Niall mutters without looking down. He sighs. “You can have a bite.” 

Harry’s staring at the ceiling, which is starting to heave a bit, like the deck of a ship. “Feed it to me.” He throws a hand over his forehead and tries to look sultry. Judging by Niall’s choked laugh, he just looks ridiculous. Still, Niall twirls his fork around the cheap pasta and pops it in Harry’s mouth. “I’m like a baby bird,” Harry says through the mouthful of food. “A bird-thief.” 

Niall pokes Harry’s chest. “What’s this about crime?”

“Oh, just something my ex said. Says I take, like, tokens from people.”

“People you date?” Niall asks. 

Harry shrugs as much as he cans flat on his back, his head picked up just enough to drink from the glass Niall’s just passed him. It’s straight whiskey, and he must make a face, because Niall chuckles. “Mm,” Harry thinks about it. He’s got a jersey of Corey’s that he left at Harry’s after a watch party, and a Man U flag of his mate Anthony’s that he packed up with his freshman dorm. Grimmy’s got a point, Harry thinks. “People who are important to me, I guess.” 

Niall’s quiet for a moment. “What are you planning to take from me?” 

“Your heart,” Harry jokes, baring his teeth. Niall doesn’t look away from his face. “The cat, I suppose. Actually,” He props himself up on his elbow so he can look Niall in the eye. “I was hoping the song you write tonight while you’re smashed could be about me. I want to tell my grandkids all about how exciting my life was.” 

Niall holds his gaze seriously. “We better work on getting smashed, then.” 

For all of his talk, Harry only manages to get through another two sips of whiskey before he decides to start directing Niall on how to properly trash a hotel room. “Our two best examples are Kurt Cobain and Johnny Depp,” he says, squinting to read his iPhone screen. Everything’s blurry, and the words keep swimming, though, so – fuck it. Harry tosses his phone on the bed and rubs his hands together. 

“So wh – whoops!” Niall says. His hands slips and the bottle tilts, whiskey pouring out onto the floor. 

Harry bows his head. “Thank you, Niall, for that toast to the gods of rock ’n’ roll.” He starts taking the boring prints off their hooks and setting them gently against the floor while Niall upturns the armchair in the corner. They tackle the couch together until Niall pokes his head over his side of it and spots Harry eating one of his Red Vines. The couch lands on its side, and stays there. 

“Okay, okay,” Harry says, breathless with laughter, when Niall’s draped over his back, the Red Vine clutched victoriously in his fist. “Next the bathroom.” They stand side by side and study the white shower curtain and faux-granite counter. “I love these,” Harry says, picking up one of the tiny bottles on the counter. “They’re so cute and small.” 

“Me too!” Niall laughs. “D’you wanna steal ‘em?” 

“Niall!” Harry says, curling the bottle in his fist. “I can’t condone thievery. Put it in the bag while I’m not looking and we’ll divide the loot later.” 

Niall nods seriously. He starts pulling the shower curtain down, mostly by accidentally stepping on the hem. “I hate baths,” he tells Harry while Harry reaches up and undoes the shower rings so they can get the curtain down. “I couldn’t relax sitting in a pool of me own filth.” 

Harry hums. “So take a shower first. You light a nice candle, bring a book.” 

“Eat a weed brownie,” Niall mutters. Harry pinches his bum. “Cheeky,” Niall swats him when Harry pushes past to see what they’ve got left. 

“Ooh, Notting Hill is on,” he says instead. “Niall.” 

“Sure thing,” Niall says overly brightly. “Notting Hill is totally rock ‘n’ roll.” 

Harry sits up on the bed and attacks Niall’s leftover Ramen noodles. Niall lays across the foot of the bed, tapping on his phone. He’s watching Julia Roberts rush away from the chapel on a horse when he realizes. “Mm,” Harry says, nudging Niall with his toes. “I can’t believe we almost forgot the most important part! Write us a song, Nialler.” 

Niall rolls his head to look at Harry. “I didn’t even bring a guitar,” he says. 

“This is why you should play the harmonica,” Harry informs him, slurping up a noodle. 

Niall’s face wrinkles. “Has anyone ever told you that you eat like a child?” 

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Harry says, setting the noodles aside. He doesn’t feel drunk anymore, really, but the lighthearted feeling remains. He’s just happy, he realizes. “You know what’s most rock ‘n’ roll of all?” Harry asks. 

“Something tells me I’m about to find out,” Niall mutters. 

“Jumping on the bed. And,” he adds, before Niall can shut him down, “if we break it by accident, then no one has to know how. Right?” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively. 

Niall climbs to his feet quite gracefully, and then he helps Harry up. “We should up the stakes. Loser buys winner dinner.”

“How do I lose?” Harry asks. “Not that I’m going to lose, of course.” 

“Loser is the first to fall off the bed,” Niall answers patiently. 

Sounds good to Harry. “Okay. Wait, no!” Harry gasps, grabbing Niall’s forearms. “Loser gets a tattoo! Winner gets to pick!” 

“That is the worst idea I’ve ever heard,” Niall groans. He grins. “Good thing I’m going to win.” It’s actually a close thing, the mattress squeaking under their feet, the ceiling close enough to palm, until Niall shoves Harry off the bed mid-jump. 

He squeaks, “Erp!” and lands heavily on his arse. “I think I broke my bum,” Harry says, rolling onto his side on the floor. 

“National tragedy, that,” Niall laughs. “I win.” 

“You cheated!” 

Niall just rolls his eyes. “You never said I couldn’t cheat,” he responds. Suddenly Harry remembers that Niall has a big brother. He’s been out-little-sibling-ed. He pouts, and Niall helps pull him over the side of the mattress, flopping onto his back. Harry touches him then, because he can’t not, and thumbs over Niall’s hip bone where his shirt’s ridden up. Niall’s voice is just a whisper. “What are you doing?” 

“I’m very interested in becoming a groupie,” Harry answers, just as soft. A smile sneaks over his face. “If you’ll have me.” 

“My very own Penny Lane,” Niall crows, letting Harry crawl over him so that he’s sitting on his thighs. Harry starts unbuttoning his shirt. He wants to lick him. And bite him. Consume him somehow, make them one person. He runs his palms up over Niall’s ribs, over his shoulders, down his arms. Niall shivers. Then he snorts. 

Harry’s maybe a bit offended. “Why are you laughing right now?” he demands. 

“The way you’re looking at me,” Niall says. “Like a kid at Christmas.” 

Harry huffs, “I’m trying to decide where to start.” He lowers his mouth to the base of Niall’s throat. Niall cuts off mid-laugh when Harry presses his teeth in just a bit, tonguing Niall’s pulse. His heart’s going very fast. 

He pulls up so he can press his lips along Niall’s cheek. He noses the spot behind his ear, smelling Niall’s aftershave and his cologne and a bit of the orange they were too drunk to successfully peel. 

Niall makes an impatient sound and buries his fingers in Harry’s hair, turning his head the few inches to align his mouth with Niall’s. Harry’s lips part at once and Niall surges up off the bed a bit when his tongue goes in and Harry sucks on it before he lets go. 

Harry pulls back to let Niall sit up and shrug his shirt off his shoulders. He wants to touch him everywhere. Ideally several times. Niall plucks at Harry’s cozy jumper and he takes the hint, pulling it off over his head while Niall works on his belt buckle. “Get your trousers off,” he orders Harry, and lies back to wriggle out of his own. Harry stops everything he’s doing to watch. A blush creeps up over Niall’s chest to his throat and cheeks, and he’s so smooth and lithe.

“Christ, I’ll give you a striptease later, get naked now, okay?” 

“Really?” Harry asks, his thumbs just hooked under his jeans. His mind boggles.

“Oh, for the love of – ” Niall huffs, rolling off the bed. His shoulders taper down to his narrow waist, and his skinny lean legs look so long. Harry stares at his bum. 

Harry starts trying to get his clothes off as fast as possible. “Wait, where are you going?” 

“I’m not going to shag you with Hugh Grant’s mug on the telly,” Niall says, hitting the TV’s power button. 

“But we are going to shag?” Harry feels the need to confirm. Niall walks back over to him and Harry scrambles up to his knees to meet his mouth. He cradles Niall’s face between his palms. Niall tips his head back a bit, letting Harry’s mouth slide off his own, so he starts kissing up the line of his ribs. His hands slide down the back of Niall’s pants. Niall’s fingers tighten in Harry’s hair; it hurts just enough to sharpen everything, Niall’s flushed skin against his, the way his breathing’s gone ragged. Harry presses his face to Niall’s chest. His heart is beating very fast. 

Harry asks, “So, like. How d’you want to do this?” 

Niall presses down ever so lightly on Harry’s shoulder. Harry takes the hint, sliding off the bed to sink to his knees in front of Niall. He looks up, and Niall rubs his thumb over Harry’s lips. They already feel sore. “And then you can do me,” Niall says softly. 

As much as Harry’s looking forward to it, he can’t help but take his time with Niall. If he can’t make his knees go weak, then what’s the point? Niall’s cursing faintly when he comes, his hand braced on Harry’s shoulder for support. Harry hums happily, pulling off only when it seems like Niall may need some help getting to the bed. 

“You’re like some kind of vampire,” he says fuzzily. “A really smarmy vampire,” he repeats, pushing Harry’s grinning face away from him. 

He closes his eyes, and Harry waits a very anxious ten seconds before he pokes Niall in the shoulder. “Not to be rude,” Harry says, “but, like.” He motions to himself, and Niall’s eyes flutter open. “Niall,” Harry pokes him again. 

Niall laughs, “God, you’re such a child. Get the slick.” 

“Where’s it?” Harry asks. He can’t look away from the blush on Niall’s face, so he backs off the bed. 

“My wallet,” Niall answers. Harry has to look away to fish his jeans out from under the bed, and when he opens the wallet, a bit of paper flutters out to the carpet floor. Harry picks it up. He doesn’t mean to snoop, but then he sees the words “by Niall Horan” and he’s unfolding it as he stands up, a condom and the packet of slick warming up curled in the center of his palm. “What’ve you – Harry,” Niall says, sounding choked. “Give me that.” 

“What is it?” Harry asks, holding it just slightly out of Niall’s reach. Not so that it’s intentional. More so that he can’t move. “Is this a song?” 

Niall snatches it out of his hand, blushing furiously. “It’s not ready yet.”

“You’re carrying it around in your wallet,” Harry points out. “What’s it about?” 

Harry doesn’t think Niall could possibly turn any more red. “It’s not done yet, I don’t want to talk about it,” he says. It’s as sharp as Harry’s ever heard Niall sound.

Biting his lip, Harry climbs back onto the bed. “Is it possible,” Harry begins slowly, “that maybe you’ve already written the song I asked you for?” 

“It’s possible,” Niall allows, resolutely not looking at him. 

“Okay,” Harry says. He reaches for Niall’s hand and Niall lets him have it, watches as Harry kisses his palm. Harry thinks he detects a tiny smile on his face; it grows when Harry licks the palm of his hand. His nose wrinkles, and Harry thinks he might die of fondness.

Niall says, “Okay? That’s it?” 

Harry shrugs. “I’ll hear it on the next album.” Niall makes a muffled sound and pulls Harry down on top of him. His afterglow’s definitely faded, Harry decides, when Niall curls his arms around Harry’s back almost hard enough to bruise. He gets his hands down Harry’s pants and Harry’s thrusting down against him before he can stop himself. “Wait, wait,” he says, proffering Niall the lube. 

“Finally,” Niall grunts, ripping it open and squeezing some onto Harry’s fingers. “Go, go.” 

Harry follows orders even as he frowns. “This isn’t a race, Niall,” he tuts. 

“Yeah, but I’ve heard how slow you talk, I will literally kill you if you do me that slow right now,” Niall warns him. Threatens him? Harry can’t really concentrate on semantics when Niall’s back is arching off the bed, his eyes clenched shut. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Harry murmurs. He wonders if he can get Niall’s face tattooed on himself somewhere. Maybe like the backs of his eyelids. 

Niall just shakes his head. “C’mon, man.” It takes less time than Harry expects, and even though he’s been hard for ages, he kind of feels like he’s not ready yet. He just wants it to be so good, and he’s a little worried that he’s going to come the second he gets close. “Alright, okay,” Niall says. Harry starts to ease himself in, and Niall’s eyes fly open. “Wait, wait. Like this.” He pulls Harry’s face down to his and kisses him lazily, his lips hardly moving. The taste of whiskey and two-for-one grocery store noodles barely lingers.

“Oh, now you want it slow?” Harry mutters. Niall laughs. Harry gets it, though. He’s wanted it slow, too. Wants it to last as long as possible. He looks for a good angle and leans in close, Niall’s chest expanding against his when the timing lines up right. It feels like it lasts forever. It’s not quite making Niall a part of himself, but it’s close. Niall’s fingers curl in Harry’s shoulders when he comes, his eyes closing a beat too late. It’s the look in Niall’s eyes that has Harry coming before he realizes it’s happening, and then he just tucks his face in Niall’s neck and holds on. 

Eventually, Niall pushes on his chest a bit. “Not to be unromantic, but you’re crushing me a bit,” he says, and Harry finally moves away, binning the condom beside the bed as he goes. He lays back down and scoots over until his forehead budges up against the side of Niall’s head. Niall reaches between them and intertwines their fingers. 

“We should get matching tattoos,” Harry murmurs sleepily. 

“Thought I got to pick yours?” Niall yawns. 

Harry shakes his head. “Not since you cheated.” He checks the clock. “Christ. I have to be up in two hours to go fishing with your da.” 

Niall makes a soft, “Ha ha,” sound, and Harry digs his fingers between Niall’s ribs until Niall elbows him in the chest. Then he sets his alarm for an hour and five minutes, wrapping an arm over Niall’s side and tucking his fingers underneath him. 

***

The water on Loch Siabhair is so still and smooth, a dark gray mirror to the overcast skies up above. Harry stretches out on the little rental boat and folds his hands across his chest, his eyes slipping shut. 

“I thought you wanted to fish!” Bobby laughs. He’s holding a fishing rod and they’ve got a cooler packed with ice under the seat for the perch Bobby is hoping to wrangle. Harry’s wearing a quite fetching fisherman’s hat that he found in Bobby’s house when he went to pick him up. “Niall still asleep?” Bobby had asked with a grin. 

“Whiskey,” Harry had just shuddered. Bobby didn’t ask any more questions. 

Harry basks in a momentary break in the clouds. “I’m just getting into my groove,” he says. “No rush.” 

Bobby hums, adjusting his line with a faint whirring sound. Harry listens to the waves lap against the side of the boat, Bobby’s quiet breathing, birds cooing overhead. “Perfect,” Harry decides. 

He doesn’t expect Bobby to hear him, but he does. “I think so, too,” he says. “You know I’ve never left the country?” 

“Really?” 

Bobby nods. “Been working my whole life to pay the bills, let alone go on holiday,” he laughs. “I think the furthest I ever took Niall was to the coast for a beach day.” 

“Huh,” Harry says, thinking of the golden sandy beaches in California. Irish coasts are…not like that. 

Picking up on Harry’s tone, Bobby laughs. “Well, you know.”

“My dad took me to France on holiday once,” Harry volunteers. He can’t quite believe he’s saying it. “With my mum and my sister. That’s, uh. The best memory I have of him, actually.” 

“Did he pass?” Bobby asks reasonably. 

“No, just…” Passed on from us, Harry thinks. Got remarried to a much younger woman. Moved away. “I try to get it, but.” Bobby grunts. “I stole something from him,” Harry admits. Bobby looks over; Harry knows because he’s opened his eyes and tilted his head back to see him. “He had all these books so I just filched one before he moved out, hid it between the mattress and box spring in case my mum looked.”

Bobby just says, “Good for you,” and sits up straighter in the boat. 

“Funny thing is, that book is the reason I’m here. It was some poems by Yeats, and after my gap year, I thought. I dunno, but I came here.” Harry thinks about it. “Kind of a mad chance, really. What are the odds I’d end up here?” 

Bobby pushes his hat up to scratch at his hair. “I don’t know about all that, now. Are you ready to fish, laddy?” Harry nods, so Bobby passes him a fishing rod. Harry tosses the reel out, and they sit in companionable silence, waiting for the fish to bite. 

Niall’s dad is more successful than Harry; he comes away with four sizable perch. He goes to heat up the grill when they get back to Bobby’s house to make fish for lunch, and Harry finds Niall lounging on the couch in a pair of trackies and a faded jumper. He slumps down beside him, hooking his ankle around Niall’s. 

“How’d you do?” Niall asks, plucking the fishing hat from Harry’s head. 

“Didn’t catch anything,” Harry smiles. “What’d you do all morning?” 

Niall yawns. “Took a shower,” he gets out after. “Cleaned up the hotel room.” 

“Niall!” 

“What?” Niall tries to scowl. He can’t help smiling. “I’m not a rock star, and you copped out on the tattoo thing, so.”

“I didn’t cop out!” Harry protests. “I’m going to get a four-leaf clover like the one on your bum – only it’ll have four leaves, not three, I saw! – ” Laughing, Niall tries to palm Harry’s face and Harry grabs his hand and holds on, “Or maybe a little 99p, immortalize the noodles you wouldn’t share with me, dickhead.” 

He’s leaning against the arm of the couch, watching Niall’s eyes dance. “Oh, take a nap,” Niall huffs. “I’ll wake you up when the food’s ready.” 

Harry’s already closing his eyes. “You better,” he huffs. He doesn’t miss the way Niall slips his fingertips under Harry’s on the couch between them. 

He’s awoken by a soft warm weight in his lap, and Harry has a moment of panic, because sometimes when he gets way too pissed he pisses himself. But it’s just the cat he found outside the pub on karaoke night, her little face peering up at him. Harry strokes her wee head and she starts purring, her body like a washing machine vibrating against Harry’s chest. 

“Jesus, love,” he says, stroking her fur. “Scared me there.” He scratches behind her ears and she preens, arching her back. “You should have a name, shouldn’t you, beautiful girl? Pretty kitty?” 

“Why don’t you talk to me that nice?” Niall asks, making Harry jump.

Harry looks back at the cat. “What about Veronica? Er, Francine?” 

“Those are both terrible. What about Emmylou?”

“Like Harris?” Harry asks.

Niall shrugs. “Like the First Aid Kit song.” 

“Sounds good to me,” Harry says. “Emmylou.” She stands up and arches her back like a Halloween cat, digging her claws into Harry’s thighs for a moment before she’s off, her tail held high. “I don’t suppose – ”

“Not a chance in hell,” Niall cuts him off. “She goes to Dublin with you.” 

“This is why I don’t talk to you like the cat,” Harry sniffs, giving Niall’s bum a friendly pat on the way by. “I’m just gonna go grab my phone.” 

Niall calls after him, “Food’s almost ready!”

As soon as Harry’s fingers touch the phone, it lights up with a call. Harry swallows hard. “Charlotte,” he greets her. “How are you? How are things in Dublin? Any more dates with the gent from last time?” 

“Shush,” Charlotte says. “No sweet-talking. Have you got a story or not?” 

“Yes, I’ve got a story! I’ve got like twenty hours of recording.” 

“Really? And it’s all interview recording?” 

Harry thinks about the dozen or so hours of him and Niall just shooting the breeze. Riding in the car together listening to music. “Erm,” Harry says. 

“Three hundred words on my desk by Sunday or no more internship,” Charlotte says. “I’m sorry it had to come to this but I know you can do it, Harry. I look forward to reading your article.” 

“Alright,” Harry sighs. “Thank you, Charlotte. Your hard-ass act was really good, by the way.” 

“Thanks, babe. Really, though. Three hundred words. Bye.” The line clicks off.

“Bye,” Harry mutters. 

Harry takes another nap after lunch. His hair soaks the pillow in Niall’s childhood bedroom and he thinks, I ought to wrap a towel around my head, but he’s asleep before he can talk himself into getting up again. This time, he wakes up to guitar strings being carefully plucked. It’s a soft noise, soothing, and he takes a deep breath and stretches out with his eyes closed. His right hand finds Niall’s ankle, and he lets out a pleased sound and circles his fingers more securely around it. 

“Pretty kitty,” he coos, and Niall flicks him on the ear. Harry cracks one eye open and watches him set the guitar aside carefully before he slides down the bed to stretch out beside Harry. Harry flings out two limbs at random and draws Niall closer with an arm and a leg. Niall rolls into it, resting his head on Harry’s chest. Harry strokes a hand through his hair. 

He feels it when Niall lets out a sigh. “What time is your train tomorrow?” 

“Nine,” Harry murmurs back. “Is it too early to tell you I wish I didn’t have to go?” 

Niall presses his nose into Harry’s skin. “No,” he answers quietly. “It’s shit luck, isn’t it? The timing of this.” 

“I was saying that to your dad earlier,” Harry says. “D’you want to know something funny? That first year you tried out for X-Factor, I did too. Got all the way to boot camp before I got kicked off.” 

Niall hasn’t moved. “I know,” he says, like it’s obvious. “I recognized you that first time, in your flat in Dublin.”

Harry’s hands go still in Niall’s hair. “I don’t remember you.” 

“Yeah, I didn’t think so. Would’ve been nice, though, huh? To have been friends all this time.” Niall lets out a little sigh. “Anyway.” He reaches over and unplugs Harry’s phone, opens the voice memo app, sets it on Harry’s chest. He lays his head back down. “About this interview.” 

“Oh, alright,” Harry grumbles, like he’s a boy in school again and Mum is forcing him to do his revisions. “We’ll start from X-Factor, then. What was that like?” 

“Well, first of all, there was getting kicked off,” Niall begins, and Harry starts combing through his hair again. 

Several hours later, Harry stops the recording. “How much time have we got before we’ve got to get to your brother’s?” 

Niall checks the clock. “About half an hour,” he says, Harry’s hands already sneaking up his shirt. 

“Not nearly long enough,” Harry complains, snorting when Niall gets caught a bit pulling his shirt off over his head. Niall tosses his shirt to the floor and gets his hands on Harry’s belt buckle. 

Niall just quirks that one eyebrow at Harry again. “I can take care of myself, if you’d rather not.” 

“No, no,” Harry says quickly, pulling him down. “I didn’t say that.” 

Greg and Denise meet them at the door. Greg doesn’t really look like Niall. Denise is wearing a nice dress, and she looks a bit nervous, so Harry tells her, “You look lovely.” 

She smiles bashfully. “Theo’s upstairs, he’s got ten minutes of TV time left tonight. Nappies are on the layette, snacks are in the pantry. Thank you so much.” 

“It’s our pleasure,” Niall pipes up. “See you in a couple ‘o hours, then.” Denise kisses him on the cheek, Greg claps him on the back, and they’re gone. “Date night,” Niall explains, making a face. “They’re keeping the romance alive.” 

Harry steps into the house, looking around. There are plastic blocks and several toy cars scattered on the floor, and Theo’s highchair is uneven on its legs. The door to the laundry room is open, and a basket of clean laundry is sat on top of the dryer, not yet put away. It looks like a home. 

“What do you think?” 

“Did you ever think about not doing it? Like, after that first time, not getting through. Did you ever think about having a normal life?” Harry asks. He understands fully Holly’s protective instinct now, he thinks. There’s something precious here. 

Niall grins. “No,” he answers. “I never really believed it’d work out anyway, so.” 

“Can you go back, d’you think? Like, can you go and do it and make music and be famous and then come back from it and be normal again?”

Niall shrugs, but Harry doesn’t just keep going this time. He can let it be awkward if he has to. He’d like to hear what Niall thinks. “I don’t think you can ever go back,” Niall says eventually. “I think you have to keep moving forward.” 

They march upstairs and find Theo camped out in front of the TV watching The Iron Giant. “It’s only halfway over,” he tells them. “Pleeeease?” 

Harry and Niall exchange a glance. “I won’t tell if you won’t,” Harry says. Niall cracks a grin. They stretch out on either side of Theo on the floor. Niall gets Theo a snack, and Theo uses the commercial breaks to show them his Hot Wheels racetrack in the corner. He climbs into Niall’s lap toward the end of the movie, shifting until he’s cradled between Niall’s folded knees. He’s snoring by the time the credits roll. 

“That was the easiest babysitting gig I’ve ever had,” Harry whispers over Theo’s cot. It’s got a couple of dings in it, and a panel of wallpaper is peeling off the wall, but easy kids are almost always happy. 

Greg and Denise get home soon after. There’s a blush on Denise’s cheeks and Harry can finally see the resemblance between Greg and Niall when Greg smiles. “Thanks,” Greg says, patting Niall on the back again. He lingers just long enough to squeeze that spot between Niall’s shoulder and the back of his neck and then he’s pushing on inside. 

“I guess it’s not ‘see you next week,’ this time, is it?” Denise asks. She throws her arms around Niall. “I love you so much, and I’ll miss you, and if you ever want to stop, if you ever want to come home. Just come back.” 

Niall buries his face in her neck. “Yeah, Denise. You too.” 

In the truck, Harry reaches over and turns the radio off. Niall glances at him. “What are you doing?” 

“Okay,” Harry says. “What one place in this town are you going to miss most? Because we should go there right now.”

Niall’s thumbs drum against the steering wheel. “Okay,” he echoes. He flicks the blinker on and turns the truck around. They drive back past Niall’s brother’s house and turn toward the highway. Niall merges on. “You ready?” he asks. 

“The highway?” Harry asks blankly. “This is your favorite place?” 

“No, this is my favorite thing,” Niall says patiently. “Just, like, stop thinking so much. Listen.” He flips the radio back on just as Walk the Moon comes on. Harry finally gets the picture he’s been looking for, Niall’s face bright and happy as they sing along to the radio, the road spinning by under the wheels. Niall presses his foot down on the gas pedal and they speed up, rushing south toward Dublin and the Irish Sea and London with a sense of inevitability, like the song building toward a crescendo. Like an avalanche. 

***

Bobby and Niall take Harry to the airport Friday morning. He’s got his bag over his shoulder and Emmylou unhappily locked into a pet carrier Bobby had unearthed in the garage. They pull up to the kerb to let him out, so there’s no time for a long drawn-out goodbye, not that anyone wants that, anyway. He’s already sucked Niall off in the shower this morning and Bobby’s not the kind of guy to want anything more dramatic than a handshake. 

“Let me know how the article turns out,” Niall says, turning around in the front seat.

Harry nods. “I’ll send you a copy-edit as soon as I’ve got it written up.” He shakes hands with Bobby, and Niall holds his hand out for a fist-bump, so Harry pushes his knuckles up against Niall’s and lets them linger there for a moment. “It was a pleasure,” he says.

Niall nods quickly. “See you,” he says. 

“See you.” 

The train ride feels longer than it had coming to Mullingar, and Harry feeds Emmylou little pieces of the peanut butter and jelly sandwich Niall packed for him and watches out the window. He thinks of Niall on this same train when he was a boy, and it’s not an effort to see it the way Niall did. He feels like he knows him now. 

His apartment is just the same as he left it. Harry lets Emmylou out of her carrier to explore and falls face-down on the bed for a nap. When he wakes up, he feeds her a tin of sardines he can’t remember buying and opens his laptop for the first time in ages. The battery’s dead, so he goes to find the charger and plug it in. 

Explosions in the Sky’s album is still sitting under the needle. He thinks about hitting play. Instead, Harry queues up “How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb” on his phone and lets it play on a loop for most of the night as he sorts through hours of his and Niall’s idle conversations. By the time he’s pulled up a blank Word document, his heart’s pounding in anticipation. He wants to do Niall justice. He wants other people to be able to know him, too. He starts writing. 

When he’s done, he attaches the portrait of Niall in his father’s battered blue truck to the email and sends it to Charlotte. The sun’s just coming up, staining his white sheets with tones of blue and yellow and gold. Emmylou is curled up in the middle of the bed, her soft purring like a tiny engine in his apartment. Harry strokes her head, changes clothes and heads to sunrise yoga. 

***

Two months into his new job, Harry’s across the street from the Time-Life Building at a Starbucks on his lunch break when the Oldies station starts playing a song he knows. He chews his sandwich slowly, trying to place the song, when it hits him. 

“‘Fly Me to the Moon,’” Harry says the moment Niall picks up. “We were sitting outside on these steps, or maybe they were bleachers, and you were playing ‘Fly Me to the Moon’ on guitar. You were blond then. I remember now.” 

Niall laughs. “Took you long enough,” he says. “Two years.” 

“Do you know how many songs there are in the world?” Harry protests, smiling down at the remains of his sandwich. The plastic wrapper has crumbs on it, and he just knows that he’s going to spill them all down his shirtfront when he stands up to toss out his lunch. He already spent ten minutes this morning lint-rolling Emmylou’s fur off his suit, he doesn’t want to spend another ten in the bathroom trying to wipe off mayonnaise spots.

“No,” Niall answers. Harry thinks he sounds like he’s smiling. “It keeps me up at night, it does.” 

They’re quiet for a moment. Harry’s still got the hours and hours of that lost weekend saved to his hard drive. He likes to think about double-clicking and listening to them play back sometimes, even though he never does. He’d miss Niall too much. 

“I can hear you thinking,” Niall says softly. “Shh.” 

Harry can hear his own heart beating, it’s so fast. “The thing is,” Harry says quickly, “the thing is, my mum got married when she was forty-five years old.” 

“Did she?” Niall asks. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you, I’ll tell her you said that,” says Harry. Then, “That’s not the point. The point is, she married my dad first, and she got me and Gem out of the deal, and that’s good and all, but. But it took her forty-two years to meet the right person. I just think, like. If you meet the right person when you’re sixteen, you should probably take advantage of it.” 

Niall makes a soft sound. 

“Things like that are, like, once in a lifetime, you know? Or maybe twice in a lifetime, for us, but. Maybe that makes it even more unlikely, so. Uh.” Harry tries to swallow. His throat is so dry. “Well. You know what I mean.” 

“I’m on tour in Hong Kong right now,” Niall begins. 

Impatiently, Harry says, “And I’m in New York, so what? Niall – ”

“So my next tour break is in four days, and I’ve got eight days off before the next show. I can fly to you unless you’d rather see China. Can you get the time off work?” 

Harry blinks. “What?” 

Niall huffs. “I’m trying to work a time to see you, dummy.”

Harry smiles so wide it hurts. “I’ll make scones,” he says.


End file.
